The testimonies of oppression and abuse suffered by Black people in the US are infuriating but also strangely soul-enriching? If nothing else because they choose to cling to life and dignity even as white supremacy tries and fails to grind them down. I'm reminded of this poem by Lucille Clifton:

won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

Beautifully written, ferociously researched. The ideal for historiography.